All Holiday
by geekmama
Summary: It's all-holiday with Sherlock, now back on "terra firma" and with a sudden new appreciation of Molly Hooper.
1. Epiphany

_**~ Epiphany ~**_

 _For the 'Christmas' prompt_

* * *

Sherlock had been back on terra firma for almost two weeks, and John had watched him plunge into a routine that alternated between long, manic bouts of crime-solving - double murders, stolen pets, and everything in between - and brief, but intense moments of introspection that were no less worrisome for being understandable. It had, after all, been a tumultuous year for him, what with several narrow escapes from death and hair-raising behaviors that seemed to obliterate the boundaries of what he would do "for a case". Not to mention his increasing awareness of what people and sentiment actually meant to him, which was at the root of it all. John could see why Mycroft feared for his little brother. Sherlock was deep in the throes of becoming human again, and for a man for whom the word "extreme" was obviously invented, it was an alarming prospect.

John and Greg Lestrade were watching over him as best they could, however, and so were privileged to witness an encounter that set one more nail in the coffin of Sherlock's "machine" status.

"Ten to one Molly Hooper would know exactly how to interpret all this," Lestrade said, pointing and frowning over the photographs of the victim, evidence in the latest puzzle he'd brought to Sherlock. "Maybe we'd better run over to Barts."

"Not there," said Sherlock. "She's off today, pedicure at noon, then lunch with that friend of hers, Meena, at 1:30. Probably home right now, though. Let's go."

John found himself scowling. "How do you know all that? Did you hack her personal calendar?"

"If she doesn't mind why should you?" Sherlock said, dismissively.

"She's aware you do it, then?"

"Well, she's known me for years, John. She's not precisely stupid."

Lestrade merely shook his head with that _you have to laugh_ look in his eyes, but John's scowl deepened.

However, when the three of them were standing in front of Molly's door some fifteen minutes later, John's annoyance with his friend and colleague was much assuaged when the petite pathologist opened the door within a minute of Sherlock's peremptory rap.

"Hi, guys!" Molly said brightly, smiling up at them.

Lestrade grinned, and John felt himself smiling back, too, even as the word "adorable" popped into his head. But Sherlock… just stared. Quite knocked acock.

Molly's usual pert ponytail was in evidence, but that's where _usual_ ended. She'd been exercising, apparently, doing yoga or something very like, for she was dressed in black leggings and a purple, feather-patterned sports bra. Modest enough, really, though the bra did leave her midriff bare, and the ensemble did nothing to hide precisely how fit she was. Small, and surprisingly shapely, and beautifully proportioned, with a glow of good health about her.

 _Adorable._

Sherlock, however, seemed bereft of words, and Molly's smile faded just a little, a pretty blush stealing over her cheeks. "Sherlock…" she began, uncertainly.

But Lestrade chuckled, stepping forward. "Don't mind him, Molls, apparently he doesn't know quite _everything_ about you. Now here, will you take a look at these and tell us what you make of the pattern of bruising - it's baffled all of us, even the consulting git, here."

Goaded, Sherlock said, "I merely want my theory confirmed…" But his voice trailed off and he stepped aside without protest as Lestrade pulled out the photographs again.

John watched Sherlock watching Molly. Her head bent toward Lestrade's as she studied the evidence and gave her thoughtful replies to his questions. Sherlock began to look less than pleased as the discussion went on, his hands curling into fists once or twice before he remembered himself. Then he straightened his fingers, and his back and shoulders, schooling his expression, though his eyes narrowed when he glanced over at John.

But John couldn't have stopped his smirk for a thousand pounds.

Finally Lestrade said to Sherlock, "Well, looks like you were on the right track."

Sherlock nodded. "It's always good to have confirmation from a professional, however," he said with contained approbation. Molly looked up at him, surprised and pleased, and Sherlock cleared his throat slightly, his eyes helplessly sweeping over her lithe form once more, a tinge of color rising. "We'd better go, you'll be late for your pedicure," he blurted, turning away, and rather unfortunately added, "My regards to Meena!"

Molly's brows drew together in annoyed realization as Sherlock strode quickly toward the car.

Lestrade patted her arm, laughter in his eyes. "Now, now, you know what he is. Thanks for the assist, Molly, you're a peach as always."

Molly took a deep breath through her nose, still glaring at Sherlock's retreating form. "Always a pleasure working with you, Greg. And you, John."

"Cheers," John said, still smirking, and followed Lestrade back to the car in Sherlock's wake.

Once they were seated and on their way, John said, quite casually, "Molly was looking well, wouldn't you say, Sherlock?"

But Greg gave a bark of laughter. " _Well?_ Lord, that's nowhere near the mark! If I wasn't close to reconciling with Mrs. L., I have to say I'd be sorely tempted . _Sorely_ tempted."

Sherlock was muttering something that vaguely sounded like " _Shut. Up!_ " as he stared out the window.

John continued smirking and wondered how soon he'd have a chance to text Mary. " _Machine" my arse!_

 **o-o-o**

 **Dinner? - SH**

Molly, recognizing the text alert, pulled out her mobile and sighed, a combination of exasperation and amusement.

"Sherlock?" Meena asked with a wry grin. "What's he need now?"

"Dinner, apparently," Molly said, resigned. Her finger slid over the keypad.

 **OK. Mine or yours? - MH**

She said to Meena, "At least I'll be able to rake him over the coals about the hacking."

Meena sniffed. "You think that'll stop him?"

"No, but-"

 **Angelo's. - SH**

Molly stared. Then sent a reply.

 **The restaurant? - MH**

"What's he say?" Meena demanded, apparently alert to Molly's expression.

Molly flushed. "Nothing. He just wants Italian, I think."

 **You want Italian? Are you going to pick it up or shall I? - MH**

 **I'll pick YOU up. - SH**

 **At 7. - SH**

Molly gaped, first at the message, then at Meena, then at the phone again.

Meena said, "Give me that!" and grabbed the phone.

"Meena!" Molly objected.

"Good lord! Is he asking you _out?_ " Meena exclaimed gleefully, on reading the brief conversation. And then the text alert sounded once more and Meena gave a shout of laughter and handed Molly the phone, grinning like a fiend.

 **It's called a date, I believe. - SH**

Molly stared at the words.

"Well?" demanded Meena after a minute. "Aren't you going to reply? Serve him right if-"

"Shush!" Molly said, rounding on her friend a little fiercely - though she knew Meena had reason to feel that way. Still…

 **Yes. OK. 7. - MH**

 **You could have asked me in person, this morning. - MHx**

There was a rather long pause. Then…

 **You know I prefer to text. - SH**

Molly gave a small snort.

 **Alright. But we're still going to have a DISCUSSION about you hacking my phone. AGAIN. - MHx**

There was another longish pause, but just as Molly began to fear she'd pushed too far, the text alert sounded once more and she smiled at the brief concluding message.

 **Yes, ma'am. - SHx**

~.~


	2. A Grateful Heart

_**~ A Grateful Heart ~**_

 _For the 'Thanksgiving' prompt_

* * *

Caught up in Lestrade's case, Sherlock had texted to let Molly know he'd meet her at Angelo's, and had dispatched a cab to pick her up at the appointed hour. Now, having become strangely nervous in the twenty minutes he'd been waiting for her at the restaurant, he felt his pulse quicken further as Molly finally entered the door. He'd secured a table in a candlelit corner toward the back, and now rose to his feet and did his best (which was always very good indeed) to shield himself with an air of nonchalance as she made her way toward him.

 _Alone protects me._

 _Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side._

A frisson of confusion and anger tugged at him, as it had all too often of late, at the knowledge that those aphorisms, while useful to him in a certain sense, were basically lies. Mycroft had drummed them into him to start with, ever fearful for his little brother, but eventually they'd been thoroughly absorbed into Sherlock's own bizarre and pervasive persona.

Sherlock Holmes: bloody coward.

She was looking amazing he thought as she walked toward him. Quite beautiful. She was wearing a simple A-line, cocktail length frock of what looked like silk brocade, a deep color with a subtle pattern that caught the faint light… aubergine? - he could not help smiling at that, remembering how fond she'd been of that shirt he'd had in a similar color, now, alas, destroyed (interesting cases were hard on clothing); black kitten heels, close-toed but thin and strappy and not really suited to the January weather - his smile faded slightly; the oval locket on a silver chain that had been passed down to her (he remembered the first time he'd seen her wear it, several years ago, shortly after her grandmother's death, and recalled with relief that he had sincerely (if somewhat awkwardly) expressed his condolences on her loss); and a silver clip that secured one side of her hair, which was otherwise loose, falling in graceful waves about her shoulders.

And beyond her unusually stylish attire, there was that fond and familiar light in her eyes.

He swallowed hard, all too aware that he was not only a bloody coward, but thoroughly unworthy of… of what he knew Molly felt for him.

She smiled and, as she reached him, held out her hand, just a little shyly. "Hello, Sherlock," she said, her voice breathy. Nervous, just as he was.

He took her small hand in his and laid on the boyish charm. "Hello, Molly. Ready to give me a scold?"

She blushed (of course), and said, with some diffidence, "What else can I do when you keep hacking my phone?"

"Accept the fact that there is information I must have and just get on with it?" But he softened the flippancy of this retort by raising her hand, bending, and lightly kissing the backs of her slim fingers. The nails were short, as always, but pearly, neatly manicured. She gave a tiny gasp as his lips brushed her skin, and a grin pulled at one side of his mouth as he straightened and squeezed her hand. "Sit down, then, and fire away - though God knows hacking your phone is the least of my sins."

She laughed a little as she took the chair he politely pulled out for her, and said, as he joined her, "Well, I'm hardly going to rant at you when you've finally asked me out to dinner after all these years. What… what suddenly possessed you?"

Some of his mask fell away at this startling piece of honesty. A series of scenes flashed through his head: her eyes watching him with trepidation as he embarked upon his speech at John's wedding; the haze and pain (far more psychic than physical) as, furious and hurt, she'd slapped him after that drugs test in her lab (three times, sharp, surprisingly loud in the silence, no more than he'd expected - or deserved) ; moments of the many hours she'd spent by his side after he'd been shot, her tender care and quiet, easy company a healing balm in itself; her furrowed brow or shouts of laughter as she'd sat opposite him playing Operation after he'd come home to 221B - so much more entertaining than Mycroft's pitiful efforts; that slender hand brushing the hair back from his forehead the day he'd suddenly spiked a fever again; cups of tea and biscuits; chattering away with Mrs. Hudson; listening to her breathe as he lay beside her in her bed, after he'd resumed his practice of using her flat as a bolthole, not long before Christmas, the final confrontation with Magnussen creeping inexorably closer; her fierce, brief hug and her tearful "Happy New Year," when he'd gone to see her after being released, _free as a bird_ , from Whitehall, - no questions, though he suspected she knew more than she let on, just joy that he was back among the living.

He realized, suddenly, that he'd been "mind-palacing" a bit, as John would put it, and cleared his throat. "There's no _suddenly_ about it," he said, rather gruffly. "I… um… the timing just never seemed quite right."

She raised one brow slightly. "I suppose not. It does now, though?"

He stared at her again, aware of his heart thudding beneath his bespoke jacket and his elegant, form-fitting £200 shirt. Lord he might as well be a grubby and hopelessly gauche fifteen year old again. "Molly... " he began, slowly...

But then she chuckled, and reached across to lightly cover his hand where it lay (fisted, white-knuckled!) on the tablecloth. "No, never mind, it doesn't matter. I mean it does, but I'm just so happy to be here. Let's not spoil it. Let's pretend everything's fine - comfortable - and it will be!" She sat back, releasing his hand, and smiled. "Now tell me about the case. How did it all turn out?"

The thought occurred to him that, if angels existed they would undoubtedly look exactly like Margaret Elizabeth Hooper.

It was hard not to be overwhelmed by relief, affection, and, above all, thanks, but Sherlock, for all he was a coward, was also a man of great ability. He therefore took a deep breath and said, "Well… since you ask…" and launched into a detailed account of the seven (bordering on eight) that Lestrade had brought to him that morning (he stammered, just briefly, at the beginning, as he recalled the sight of Molly dressed in her yoga attire), desiring nothing more in that blissful moment than to please and obey.

~.~


	3. Buon Compleanno

_**~ Buon Compleanno ~**_

 _For the 'Birthday' prompt, with many thanks to guest PollyAnnak for the review and correcting my Italian!_

* * *

"We have to have cake, it was your birthday last week. Let's have the Pastiera alla napoletana."

Sherlock looked up from the dessert menu, brows rising as he considered his tablemate. His pathologist. His date. His… Molly. Her smile was currently of the sort that was usually described as "impish", and it made him feel very odd. As did her entire expression. Her entire person, really (the curves and shadows of cheek, chin, neck and breast neutralizing sentience for the briefest of moments). He opened his mouth to ask, How did you know it was my birthday? but realized that of course she would know, she'd seen his medical records and would have noted it and remembered, there was a reason she was the youngest specialist registrar in Barts' long and storied history (he suddenly recalled the day he'd run across her in the hospital's museum, years ago, and how annoyed he'd been by a) her cheery demeanor, and b) her obviously extensive knowledge and perceptive observations, hinting at a mind that might possibly approach his own in acuity).

He opted, instead, to sit up very straight and peer down his nose at her. "I was considering the cheese tray."

She twinkled (there was no other word for it). "We can have that, too. That's what birthdays are for." She turned to Angelo, who'd been hovering (and fighting down an amused smirk, curse him). "The cake and the cheese tray. And some Moscato D'Asti?"

"Subito, signorina," Angelo said, and tossed her a fingertips kiss in approval.

Sherlock glared after the man as he moved swiftly toward the kitchen.

"What?" Molly demanded, her eyes still laughing. "He is Italian!"

"He's lived in Clerkenwell since he was six years old."

"Well, I think he's very nice, and he obviously thinks the world of you."

"Yes. I got him off a murder charge seven years ago." But then his Mind Palace dredged up some pertinent scenes and he shrugged. "He is nice. A long time ago, before I was… well. I was living rough and Angelo basically kept me from starving." He also suspected Angelo had been one of those who'd aided Mycroft in arranging his "extraction" from London to an exclusive and extremely remote drug rehab facility, but as he'd never been able to confirm Angelo's collusion he couldn't hold it against the man. And would hardly do so now, he supposed, even if it were true.

He stared across the table at Molly, lovely, bright, innocent Molly, and he felt himself shrink within at the thought of her discovering how low he'd sunk, once upon a time.

But her smile changed, to something both softer and wiser, and she said, "How fortunate you've been to have people who've cared so deeply for you, who've been able to see you for what you are, though you've tried so often to hide it."

He was definitely "buffering" now, as John would say.

She went on, flushing slightly. "I know you don't like to speak of the past - I don't myself, and mine has to be deadly dull in comparison to yours, I'm sure. But if you ever feel… that is…" Her voice trailed off, her smile fading quite away. She now looked embarrassed and a little worried.

It occurred to him then, as indeed it had a number of times in the last few years, that she might very well be the best of them, those who could "see" him and care for him in spite of it all. And that he could tell her almost anything. "Thank you," he said, simply.

She smiled again, that light back in her eyes, and he was aware that he was smiling, too, and that he felt… happy.

"Ah, no time for making eyes at each other," boomed Angelo, startling them both. He walked up with a tray, followed by a minion tenderly carrying a cloth-wrapped bottle. "Here we are, a big piece of Pastiera alla napoletana, my sainted nonna's own recipe, with two forks so you can share, and here is your cheese tray to finish! Antonio, the wine!" Angelo tenderly received the bottle, and Antonio swiftly placed two flutes. "Mongioia 2011 Crivella: only the best for you and your lady, Sherlock!" He pulled the cork with skill gleaned from years of practice, and poured, first Molly's flute, then Sherlock's.

Sherlock picked up his flute and, inspired, said, "A toast?"

Molly was busy flushing a deeper pink, thanks to Angelo's your lady, but she pulled herself together and replied, "By all means.Buon compleanno, Sherlock!" She lifted her glass.

Angelo clapped his hands at her impromptu Italian, laughing, but Sherlock further delighted him - and Molly - by murmuring, with a fond smile, "Mille grazie, mia signorina," just before the crystal flutes chimed sweetly together.

~.~


	4. Cruel and Unusual

_**~ Cruel and Unusual ~**_

 _For the 'Writer's Choice' prompt: Valentine_

* * *

In the wee hours of the night, Sherlock slipped into Molly's bed, insinuating himself between her favorite old, wonderfully soft sheets and savoring the weight of her winter duvet, its garish rose pattern of no concern at all in the velvet blackness of her room. The faint scents of a recent laundering and her favorite shower gel were evident, along with something slightly less pleasant that he couldn't immediately place...

However, so far, so good.

He embarked on the second phase of his plan, slowly inching over, closer and closer, with infinite stealth, until at last he was curled around, though not quite touching, her still form. The heat of her body seeped across the miniscule space between them, warming him, and he gave a small sigh of relief.

His happy state was short-lived, however, for he'd no sooner settled than she was abruptly moving, flopping gracelessly over to face him, obviously not asleep (how had he missed that?) and he gave a kind of stuttering gasp as she grabbed the thin material of his vest in one fist and said in a kind of low, slightly slurred growl, "Sherlock Holmes, you are a _cruel man_."

He started to object, but she twisted the fistful of vest tighter, lunged forward, and suddenly kissed him, not quite accurately but close enough.

He now recognized that third strange scent. "You've been drinking!" he exclaimed, though he was half laughing in surprise at her behavior.

"Course I've been drinking, it was Meena's Hen Night!"

"Oh. Yes. Her… third marriage?"

"Second."

"Whatever. And I am _not_ cruel! At least, I've made a great effort not to be. Toward you. Lately."

"You _are_ , but I suppose it's your innate male stupidity. Can't help it."

This level of intoxication was unusual for her, as was the abuse and bitter tone. "What the devil are you on about, Hooper?" he demanded, plucking at her hand. "Look, let go and I'll leave, if you'd rather-"

"No, I _don't_ want you to leave!" she said angrily, tightening her fingers, and even clawing his chest a bit through the material, and then she actually kissed him again, more on target this time, and clumsily but forcefully plastered her body against his. He found himself laughing, and kissing her back almost in spite of himself, both appalled and delighted...

But then she abruptly broke the kiss. "You're fucking _freezing!_ Did you fall in the Thames?"

"I'm not _that_ wet! Now who's being stupid? I was out on a case until some God-forsaken hour, _in the rain_ , and you may have noticed it's _the dead of winter!_ "

"So you thought you'd just break in and warm yourself up in my bed, did you?" she hissed, outraged. "Just like old times, your favorite bolthole, never mind that you've barely spoken to me in _weeks_. Bastard. _I'll_ fucking warm you up!"

"Mmmmph!" was all he managed to reply, for she was at it again, kissing him, and wrapping herself about him, pushing him back against the pillows now, very warm, very alive… and very much appreciated, he realized, in spite of her execrable attitude and the lingering (though now rapidly dissipating) chill.

He found himself regretting that it really wouldn't do.

"Stop it right now!" he sputtered, catching both her wrists in his hands. After a brief struggle, he shoved her over, onto her back, and pinned her firmly. _Very_ firmly.

" _I knew it!_ " she exclaimed in triumph, "You _do_ want me!" She squirmed strategically, in such a way that neither of them could mistake the now obvious evidence of his regard.

"Stop it!" he demanded again, his voice now rather strained. "I can't take advantage of you when you're lit to the eyeballs! Who's being cruel now? And what do you mean _I'm_ cruel? I'm bloody _not!_ "

"You _are!"_ she insisted, struggling determinedly (and all too provocatively). _"_ You horrible, _stupid_ man! Climbing into bed with me without so much as a by-your-leave, after all these _weeks!_ But touch me? Oh, _no!_ Never _that_ , barely ever in all the years I've known you, even when I've been thinking and thinking of you for hours, that horrid club Meena chose was full of beautiful, stupid men, but none to compare with _you_ , of course, you great consulting _git_ , it's like some spell you've cast… or… or a _curse…_ that's all I could...

But she was suddenly oddly still.

"Are you alright?" he asked warily.

There was a pause and then a tight, urgent, " _Let me up!_ "

He did, with appropriate haste, and she scrambled out of the bed and across the room, throwing on the light as she disappeared into the en-suite. A voice in his head (it might have been Mary's) had been suggesting that a true gentleman would offer assistance, gather her hair away from the line of fire, or at least pat her back and murmur "There, there!" in soothing tones, but the slam of the door and the distinct click of the lock precluded any immediate need for intervention.

Just as well. He needed some time to put his thoughts in order.

 **o-o-o**

Sometime later, the sounds of retching, flushing, and running water having died away, she emerged, quickly shut off the light, and staggered swiftly (from the sound of it) back to the bed. Scooted under the covers and shuffled straight over to him, shivering convulsively. He gathered her close against him and drew the heavy bedclothes tight around them.

"You're still here," she managed in a shaking voice, clinging to him, her desperation for something warm and solid all too familiar (he'd been in similar circumstances a time or two, though not for anything as innocuous as alcohol). "Wh-what was I saying?"

"Oh, various things. _In vino veritas_. You called me cruel. And stupid."

She gave a weak laugh. After a minute she muttered, "Should have taken some paracetamol."

"Might make you sick again, but do you want me to get you some?"

" _No!_ Too cold. Just… stay. Here."

"Very well." He hugged her closer.

She sighed. "Can't remember what I was… we were… just… delete it. _Faaaar_ too much to drink."

"Mmm. We can talk about it in the morning."

" _No!_ " She pushed away, lifted her face to his in the blackness, her breath smelling more of mouthwash than anything else, thank God. "No need to talk. It's all good. We're… we're _friends_. Just as you said."

Oh, that horrible phone call.

He kissed her forehead. "Go to sleep, Molly," he said softly.

Too weary to argue, she relaxed against him, her shivering slowly abating. He lay there holding her, thinking (and often smiling) for a while, before he, too, dropped off.

 **o-o-o**

The call of nature forced Molly from her bed around noon the next day. She whimpered, biting her lip against the pain, then groaned aloud and held her head together as she made her way into the loo.

She was uncomfortably certain Sherlock had crawled into bed with her sometime during the night, and she vaguely remembered being angry about it, though the details of their encounter escaped her. Why, oh _why_ had she overindulged to that extent? She very much feared she had said things that… well, would have been better left unsaid.

There had been no sign of him, though, when she'd struggled up toward the ghastly light of consciousness, maybe an hour since? Perhaps he'd gone, and there was no need to be concerned. No need to _talk about it in the morning_. She was almost certain she remembered him saying that.

Morning had flown by on hideous wings, of course. It was now noon, and, peaking furtively out the loo door, she saw no evidence that he'd even been there.

He'd probably abandoned her in disgust.

She was relieved. Yes. Definitely relieved.

Not disappointed in the least.

She pulled herself together. Dosed herself with paracetamol and a big glass of water. Showered ( _not_ thinking of Sherlock in any aspect as she did so), and eventually emerged pink and glowing and feeling somewhat more human. Her headache had begun to fade, and the lingering nausea would probably be alleviated by some tea and toast. To that end, she wrapped her wet hair in a towel, threw on the luxuriously fluffy full-length bright pink dressing gown her mother had given her for Christmas, and went downstairs.

She stopped dead on the threshold of her kitchen as Sherlock looked up from where he'd been sitting by the wide island, ubiquitous phone in hand.

"Good morning," he said, his face alight with amusement as his eyes swept over her.

She felt herself blushing. "I thought you were gone!"

"Nope." He set his phone on the counter and got to his feet. "I've made you some tea, and there's toast coming in a moment. I presume you don't want butter?"

"No. Thank you. How did you-"

"I heard you showering. Thought you'd need something mild when you dared to rejoin the living." He poured out a cup of steaming tea for her. "Come sit down."

"I should go get dressed," she muttered, but sat down anyway, carefully arranging the dressing gown _since she had nothing on beneath it_. Her cheeks grew even warmer at this realization, and she busied herself putting milk and sugar in her tea, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

She finally took a sip. The tea was excellent. Exactly right.

She closed her eyes, savoring it, and then could not help breathing, "Oh, that's lovely! How is it you're good at _everything?_ "

"Well, there are some things I've never tried. I might not be good at those."

She dared to look up at him and saw that his expression had altered to something more quizzical.

Then he added, "You might have to be patient with me."

An odd frisson went through her. "W-what do you mean?" She set the teacup down carefully.

The toast noisily popped up from the toaster. He went to put it on a plate, ignoring her question in favor of observing, "That was quite the Hen Night, apparently."

Molly cleared her throat. "Yes. We went to that new club, Bali. They had all these exotic drinks with little umbrellas and lots of fruit. Stronger than I was anticipating, I'm afraid." She tried to chuckle as she added, "Not sure I'll ever look Rum in the eye again," but it fell sadly flat.

She was starting to remember bits of the previous night.

Sherlock came over to her and set the plate of toast down in front of her. She murmured thanks, picked up a triangle, and had just taken a small bite off the corner when he said, wryly, "Lots of _beautiful, stupid men_ , though, from what you were telling me."

She nearly choked, stared up at him, her heart thudding as she chewed quickly and swallowed. "Sher-" she began, but then gave a tiny gasp as he swiftly bent and kissed her. On the lips. "Oh!" she found herself whispering.

"Oh, indeed," he said. "Do you remember much of last night?"

"Y-yes. A little. I...um… kissed you?"

"Mmm. Forcibly. Several times."

"I'm sorry."

"Are you?" His brows rose.

"I… Shouldn't I be?"

"No," he said, suddenly more serious. "Though you might apologize for calling me cruel. It's _you_ who's been cruel, telling me you were satisfied that we remain just friends."

"But we both agreed-"

" _We_ did nothing of the sort _,"_ he snapped. "You _insisted_ and I _acquiesced._ In spite of my misgivings, which were obviously, in hindsight, more than reasonable."

"Sherlock, you were _forced_ to say it!"

" _So were you!_ " He fell silent for a moment, breathing rather quickly, glaring down at her. But when he spoke again, his voice was deadly calm. "That doesn't mean it wasn't true, Molly."

Molly stared at him. "But… you don't love me. Not… not _that_ way."

Sherlock gave a groan of frustration, and ran his hands through his hair. Then he said, with vehement tone and gesture, "What do I need to do, Molly? I'm nearly forty years old, we've wasted _years_ \- no, _I've_ wasted years. But I'll set about wooing you, for however long it takes, if that's what you really want."

She gaped. Finally _seeing_ him. And seeing herself, too. There could be no doubt… none at all. She said then, almost in a whisper, "What do _you_ want, Sherlock Holmes?"

A slow smile transformed his expression. "You, Molly Hooper," he said, in a voice that made her tremble within. "Now and always."

 **o-o-o**

"How is it," Sherlock asked, running his hand lightly up her bare thigh, "that I've just realized you're naked under that hideous dressing gown?"

He was now seated in her most comfortable armchair, and she was curled in his lap with her dressing gown in slight disarray, the importance of modesty having diminished in light of recent events. There had been superb kisses, ardent embraces, and fervent declarations - and a few tears, too - before he finally snatched her up and carried her into the lounge so they could continue their discussion in greater comfort.

"It's a beautiful dressing gown!" she protested. "The color is… "

"A bit sudden?" Sherlock suggested, "To put it kindly."

She smirked. "How lovely that you're making the effort to curb your… um… wit."

"Yes, isn't it? And perhaps _you'll_ no longer be inclined to throw unjust epithets at me."

She sighed. "I told you I was sorry."

"No, you didn't. You said you were sorry for kissing me."

She looked up at him, widening her eyes in a simulacrum of innocence, her fingers going to the buttons of his shirt, which clearly needed to be undone. "I'm sure you're mistaken. Why would I be sorry for that?"

"That was my thought at the time, as you well know. And what do you think you're doing?"

"Oh, don't tell me to stop. I've wanted to do this for nearly seven years."

"Sit on my lap and unbutton my shirt?"

"Well, yes. As a… a sort of _prelude_ , you know."

"I see."

He sounded so serious that she did stop and looked up at him again. "Don't you want to?"

"God, yes!" he almost gasped. "But I'm not the one who was so tragically overserved last evening. Are _you_ sure _you_ want to, just now?"

"Well… we may have to take things very slowly… More carefully than is usual in such cases. _Patience_ , as you were saying."

He gave her a look. "You're going to be the death of me, aren't you?"

She smiled.

He sighed dramatically and, resigned to his fate, gave her a quick kiss. "I suppose we'd better get on with it then," he said, and began to tease loose the sash of her dressing gown.

 **~.~**


	5. Fancy Dress

_**~ Fancy Dress ~**_

 _For the 'Writer's Choice' prompt: Halloween_

* * *

A few weeks in he is no longer thrown into buffering mode every time he sees her. He's able to look on appreciatively as she exits the cab he'd sent to fetch her, able to keep to a minimum the (fascinating / inconvenient) physical reactions the mere sight of her had evoked those first days after they'd altered their relationship in the oldest way known to man (intellectually he finds it mortifying that he is no different than the common herd; viscerally there is a constant sense of astonishment at the profundity of each encounter, coupled with a strange yet deeply satisfying feeling of connectedness, to her... to himself… to humanity).

And yet he finds himself swallowing hard at the flash of slim legs and the warmth of her smile as she waves at him, seeing him waiting there on the portico of the British Museum, half in the shadow of one of the huge columns. He moves forward and down, into the sunlight, and watches her trot up to him, up the many shallow steps. So light a foot will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint…

"You look beautiful," are the first words out of his mouth - but she does , in a shirtwaist dress splashed with bright flowers over skirt and bodice, its collar modestly buttoned, black cardigan (not cashmere, he needs to rectify that), and dainty black shoes ("dainty" is so twee a word, but her feet are small and, as he now knows so intimately, perfectly formed, perfectly maintained, he has kissed each toe, studied the fine bones, the high arches, run his fingers over smooth heels (pumiced weekly in the bath) on his way to well-turned ankles, the swell of strong calves, knees that are no less than a work of art, slender yet muscular thighs…). He shifts, once more disconcerted, and thankful for his Belstaff. Yet her outward appearance, the one not teasing his hindbrain, is not only beautiful, but demure . To his gratification and, really, astonishment, she is for him alone . (It was not always so ,of course, there was the execrable Tom, and a few others before him, and he has no right to be jealous (curiosity at uni having expunged his own claims to innocence, however drug-addled and unimpressive the incidents may have been) but he is , he's always felt possessive toward her (though previously loath to admit it, even to himself) and never more than now, and he's quite thankful she hadn't been a virgin that first time since adding such a defining layer of ownership would probably have turned him quite murderous (how much clearer was his understanding of crimes of passion, really he should have done this years ago (and certainlyshe thought so)) - not to mention that the skill she had acquired, combined with his own recent research (and he would not feel guilty about Janine, she had been well compensated (and getting rid of the beehives had certainly been the frosting on her payback cake, however unwitting)), had enhanced their initial interactions to a remarkable (heartstopping… unfathomable) degree.)

Glowing, she takes his hand. "Thank you. You look beautiful, too."

He gives a chuff of laughter, then (taking advantage of their private bubble in this very public space) has to ask, "Molly… were you always… affected by the mere sight of me?"

She blushes charmingly. "Of course. Always. You know I was." She is suddenly shy, her gaze flickers down and, with the hand not held, she reaches up to run light fingers over the lapel of his coat, lingering near the red buttonhole.

There is something both painful and prideful that swells in him. He squeezes her hand, and says (in a tone meant to be rueful but comes out rather more suggestive than not), "Well, I assure you, you have your revenge now. In spades."

Her eyes meet his again, reflecting both pleasure and amusement. "I'm very happy to hear it. Since we're here , though-"

"Rather than-"

"Precisely. Why did you send for me? You said there was a special exhibition of some kind?"

"Y-yes." He finds himself hesitating, his love of science and human oddities suddenly in conflict with his deep regard for this woman, his Molly , and the many things that their future together might hold. "I came across it when I was doing some research here this morning. Thought you'd find it interesting. It's called Midwifery through the Ages ."

And she laughs, delighted. "I bet it's horrific - and fascinating! Let's go then. You can show me all the most gruesome displays."

She pulls him by the hand up the step to the portico, but in the shade and not-quite-privacy of the wide column he stops her, pulls her close. Kisses her. Tenderly. At length. With great satisfaction.

"Sherlock!" she breathes when she finally can.

"I love you, you know," he says. Absolutely compelled.

"I know." She smiles up at him, happiness and a promise in her eyes. "Do you want to go-"

"God yes!"

"-inside?"

"Oh. Right." He's grinning like an idiot. "I mean, as you say, as long as we're here."

"Come on!" she says, grinning, too, and grabs his hand.

And still bemused, he lets her lead the way.

~.~


	6. I Do It Myself

_**~ "I Do It Myself" ~**_

 _For the 'Independence' prompt, and a late entry for day one of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week on Tumblr: 'A Ros(i)e by any other name (fanworks focusing on Molly & Rosie's relationship)_

* * *

He was reclining on his sofa, doing some important housekeeping (Hudders had intruded, but he'd ignored her and she'd gone away, clucking "Bloody Mind Palace!") when his phone erupted with a jarring melody – not Molly's text alert, which he would also have ignored for the moment, but her ring tone. She was _calling_ him. She was well aware of his low tolerance for phone chatter, therefore it was something urgent– _at least it had better be_ , he thought darkly.

Unfortunately, it was.

"Molly?"

" _She's gone! Rosie's gone!_ I took my eye off her for _seconds_ , _seconds!_ _Oh, my God! Sherlock!_ "

"Where are you?" He sat bolt upright, his blood freezing.

"Regent's Park, the play area by the duck pond," she managed, pulling herself back from the edge of hysteria.

"I'll be there in five minutes."

It was less than that, for he grabbed his Belstaff and ran all the way, and that particular area of the park was fairly close to Baker Street and very familiar to them both. They'd brought Rosie there countless times, together and individually, entirely without incident (well, save for a skinned knee or two), and Rosie had never shown the least inclination to wander away from her godparents, therefore… but no, _that_ didn't bear consideration, not until he had all the facts that could be gathered.

And, in what seemed a miracle of timing, the facts were laid out before him as he came rushing upon the scene: Molly, hoarse with terror and repeated shouting into the trees and shrubbery that formed the perimeter of the deserted play yard, then spotting him and running toward him; but Sherlock panted, " _There! There she is!_ " and gripped Molly's arm, pulling her around so she could see.

Molly gasped, then froze, clapping a hand over her mouth. Sherlock left her there and strode toward their errant goddaughter.

Rosie was running toward them, through the larger, more populated play area designed for older children that was adjacent to her own, though separated by some ten yards of grass. She was obviously in fine fettle, looking pleased as punch. "I do it!" she chirped loudly. "I do it myself!"

Sherlock dropped to one knee as Rosie came up to him. " _Rosamund Mary–_ "

"I went to the loo _all by myself!_ " Rosie insisted, pointing back toward said structure, which lay just beyond the larger playground. She caught his coat sleeves in her small hands and shook him, determined he should be impressed, but then she looked up at Molly, who was now approaching, and her sunny grin faded. "Aunt Molly?"

"Oh, _Rosie!_ " Molly breathed in a shaking voice, and snatched the little girl up into a fierce embrace.

Sherlock got to his feet again and observed the fraught reunion until Molly gave a shuddering sob. Then he said, "Alright, come here, you miscreant brat," and gently took Rosie from her godmother, who turned away, blotting at her wet cheeks with the sleeve of her cardigan.

Rosie asked in a concerned voice, "Is Aunt Molly alright?"

"She will be, but you must _never_ leave without telling her, Rosamund, do you understand?"

Rosie's lower lip trembled. "It was a surprise!"

Sherlock kissed the soft, round cheek. "I daresay you had the best of intentions, but we must know, _always_ , that you're safe, it's _very_ important. You gave Aunt Molly a dreadful fright when she couldn't find you. She even called me on the phone to help her!"

"Oh!" Rosie looked over at her godmother, wide-eyed.

Sherlock said, "In fact, she's had such a scare that I believe she needs to sit down for a few minutes, while you finish playing."

Rosie turned to him again and said quite seriously, "You should cuddle her. That will make her feel better."

Sherlock replied, deadpan, "Excellent advice."

Rosie nodded, and then caught sight of two familiar playmates approaching with their pretty college-aged a _u pair._ "Put me down, Uncle Sherlock!" she demanded, and he complied. She ran blithely off to greet the newcomers, and the three quickly repaired to the toddler slides.

Sherlock, however, led Rosie's godmother to the nearby bench where she'd apparently flung her bag down at the height of the drama.

They sat and Molly groped for her tissues, blew her nose, and dabbed at her cheeks. Then she finally dared to raise her eyes to Sherlock's and they immediately filled with tears again, her lips quivering pitiably. He put his arm about her and let her lean into his shoulder, weeping, though he said, bracingly, "She's fine, Molly. Just asserting her independence. She _is_ almost three years old."

A sodden chuckle escaped. "I know. _I do it myself_."

He laughed, too, and gave her a squeeze.

Presently, she regained some control and sat up with a shuddering sigh. "I just love her _so much_. If anything were to happen…"

Sherlock wanted to tell her, _It won't! We won't let anything harm her!_ But he'd learned some dreadful lessons in the last few years, so he said, instead, "We'll do better from now on."

"Yes. _I'll_ do better. _You_ were magnificent! Quite literally _running to the rescue."_

"A pointless exercise, as it turned out."

"Not pointless at all," she said, and took his hand in hers. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

After a moment she said, unhappily, "Do you think we should tell John?"

"No."

"No?" She looked up at him.

He shrugged, giving a slight grimace. "We won't have to. She'll probably do that for us."

Molly stared, quickly realizing he was correct. "She _is_ uncommonly articulate for her age."

"And enjoys nothing more than telling a good story."

She bit her lip, then shook her head. "We _can't_ encourage her to keep secrets from her father."

"I'm afraid that would, indeed, be opening Pandora's Box."

She nodded, resigned, and leaned against him once more with a despondent sigh. He kissed the top of her head, then settled more comfortably to join her in watching their beloved goddaughter at play.

~.~


	7. Surprising

_**~ Surprising ~**_

 _For the 'Writer's Choice' prompt: 'Party', and for Day 6 of Molly Hooper Appreciation Week on tumblr (Music lifts my soul)_

* * *

Birthdays at "the cake place" - Marcelline's, a ten minute walk from 221B - had recently become an established tradition for the small, bemused coterie of persons privileged to call themselves friends of Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had still been on the mend from his latest foray into drug addiction when he'd been the first to be honored, polishing off a slice of Triple Chocolate Gateau with an alacrity that had astonished his minders, accustomed as they were to his finicking (or nonexistent) appetite. A few weeks later, Sherlock, John, and Molly had treated Mrs. Hudson on her natal day. She had, as was proper, declined to share her true age, but she had thoroughly enjoyed the Mango and Blackcurrent Mousse she'd chosen from the menu and startled them once again with a few offhand remarks about her unconventional history. Then, about a month after the Sherrinford debacle, it had been Greg Lestrade's turn (Strawberry Tart) - a surprise gathering arranged by Sally Donovan. Sherlock and Sally's interactions on that occasion seemed to indicate they'd more or less buried the hatchet, and if he and Molly had felt a bit awkward, Greg had only been unabashedly thrilled.

Molly had noticed that Greg's joyous reaction to the unexpected event had intrigued Sherlock, but she was unaware of the exact extent of his interest and the reason for it until her own birthday rolled around.

The morning started out in quite an ordinary fashion. She'd somehow failed to ask for the day off, so she'd actually had to work, and it turned out to be exceptionally busy. By the time her shift was ending, she was so tired that she almost decided to text Sherlock and beg off coming to Marcelline's at all. He would understand. He was, after all, a great part of the reason for her weariness, having kept her up half the night before _again_ in the most delightfully devastating fashion.

This had happened all too often in the several weeks since the events following Meena's Hen Night, events that had finally altered her relationship with Sherlock in the best possible way, _a true testament to the efficacy of drunkenness and forcible debauchery_ as he'd later observed with a cheeky glint in his eye. She could hardly argue with that, or with his apparent determination to make up for lost time. His zeal was admirable, if exhausting, and since his bent for observation, deduction, and scientific inquiry were leavened with a wonderfully tender regard, she hesitated to voice even the mildest complaint. However, it was becoming obvious to her that a regimen of love-making interspersed with light dozing until three or four (or five) in the morning would not do, at least not on work nights.

She changed her mind about texting him, though. Once she left Barts, got outside in the rain-washed air of that early spring evening, she felt a great deal better. A short ride on the Tube, an easy walk through the familiar Marylebone streets, and she entered Marcelline's with a smile of pleasant anticipation.

And then a roar of "Surprise!" echoed through the cake-scented air, and suddenly she really _was_ wide awake.

It was the biggest gathering yet: John and Rosie, and Mrs. Hudson, with Mr. Chatterjee hovering near; Greg Lestrade with Donovan, Anderson, and Hopkins; Meena and her new husband; and several colleagues from Barts, including Mike Stamford, his wife, and the three oldest of their five children.

Sherlock was the first to come toward her, saying,, "I tried to get Mycroft to come, too, but Alicia is out of town at present and seemed unable to guilt him into it via text."

She laughed, saw that he was holding out his hands and took them in hers. "You did this?"

"Do you like it?"

She wanted to leap up, wrap her arms about his neck and snog him senseless, but she only had time to squeeze his hands tight and reply, " _Yes!_ " before they were surrounded and she had to let him go to turn and greet everyone else.

 **o-o-o**

"I've never had a surprise party before," she said to him later as they walked along, her hand tucked in his arm. They were headed over to Angelo's, just the two of them now, looking forward to a light post-cake supper.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it," Sherlock said with a smile.

"It was such an inspiration to invite Mike's children. They were adorable when they took Rosie under their collective wing."

"Mmm. They didn't seem to mind being relegated to the Children's Table. I always hated that, when I was growing up, but I can certainly see the advantages of it as an adult."

"Oh, yes. And eating dessert first, that's another advantage. That lovely little salad with the shrimp that Angelo makes will be perfect to follow. And it was so kind of Mrs. Hudson to offer to take my gifts back to Baker Street so we could walk to Angelo's. Everyone was too generous!" Molly sighed happily, remembering the beautiful silk scarf she'd received from Mrs. Hudson, Mike and Betty's Amazon gift card, the NSY crowd's big tin of Milk Caramel Praline Sea Salt Truffles from London's most prestigious chocolatier, Charbonnel et Walker, and the pretty new jumper from John and Rosie ("Another fruit-based cardigan?" Sherlock had muttered, to which Molly had replied, "Hush, you! I _love_ it!").

But now Sherlock had fallen oddly quiet, and presently Molly looked up at him.

He glanced down at her, not quite smiling, then looked away again. But then he said, "I… I have a gift for you, too."

"Oh! I thought the party itself was your gift!" He'd arranged for everything, reserving the whole shop and paying for everyone's choice of cake and other refreshments at what she knew must have been considerable expense.

"Well, that. But I have something else for you." He slowed, stopped, looked undecided for a moment, then pulled her over to the entrance to an alley - a fairly clean, respectable one, running between Petersham's Books and the back of a gourmet food shop. There were shadows, as it was growing dark - a few stars could already be seen between breaks in the clouds - but there was a light by the back porch of the food shop that cast a pleasant golden glow.

Still: an alley! "Couldn't this wait until we get to Angelo's?" she asked as he reached into an inner pocket of his coat.

"No," he said firmly, though it was obvious to her that he was tense, troubled. "Open it here. I… I'm not certain… well… here."

And he drew out a small, flat, brightly wrapped parcel.

She did not take it at once. The wrapping was a shiny red, and it was tied with silky black yarn, and there was a tag.

It looked exactly like her gift to him on that terrible Christmas Eve so many years before.

She looked up at him, suddenly wary. But his lips were set in a firm line, and his eyes were… afraid. This was no teasing joke, then. There was some serious intent behind it.

She steadied herself, and solemnly took the box, happy to see that her hand did not tremble.

The tag read, as she'd known it would,

 _ **Dearest Molly**_ _ **  
**_ _ **Love, Sherlock x x x**_

Her lip quivered, very slightly.

"Open it," he said, his voice intense.

She slipped the silken tie off the corners and carefully loosened the paper from around the box. He took the wrappings from her and shoved them in his pocket, and she found herself holding her breath as she drew the lid off and looked inside. Two narrow envelopes lay there. The kind that held tickets.

Her Christmas gift to Sherlock on that long ago night had held only one envelope: two tickets for the London Philharmonic, with Itzhak Perlman performing Vivaldi.

Memories swirled through her head, old pain once again brought to the fore: climbing the stairs to 221B to deliver some body part to him and for the first time hearing him play his violin; gathering her courage to try once more to make an impression on him, allow him to see what he meant to her, hoping he would understand that it was no infatuation (well it was, but it wasn't _only_ that); agonizing over what to wear, and then throwing caution to the winds entirely with that black dress, heels that were too high, earrings that she'd thought festive but realized later were simply ridiculous. Her hair. Her make-up. God, she had tried so hard…

She bit her lip, her eyes stinging. Picked up one of the envelopes and drew out the tickets… so many… good heavens…

"What… is this the whole season?" she gasped, looking up at him.

"Molly, please don't cry," he said softly.

She forced a laugh, and sniffed, blinking back tears. "No. Sorry. But Sherlock-"

"Eleven performances. For you, and for… whomever you like."

She pursed her lips. "For you, too, then, obviously."

He smiled just a little, but then grew solemn again. "I know my apology that night was not enough. I… I didn't even open your gift until days after Christmas, and then… did you really have to work the night of the concert?"

She flushed a little. "I had Mike rearrange the schedule. On the off-chance you'd ask me… and you did! But… I couldn't bear it." She sniffed again, and bit her lip.

"Molly!" he whispered, and gathered her against him.

She hugged him fiercely. Thinking how very far they'd both come since that night.

And then the box slipped from her fingers.

"Oh! Sherlock, I've dropped them! Let me go!"

He laughed, releasing her, and together they bent and picked up the tickets, many of which had come out of the too-stuffed envelopes.

Finally she stood up and carefully counted them. "I think I have them all. Twenty-two?"

"Yes. Mostly symphonies. I think you'll enjoy them."

"I know I will. Did… did you enjoy the one I gave you? Was Itzhak Perlman brilliant?"

"According to all reports. I… er… gave the tickets to Mrs. Hudson and she took Mr. Chatterjee."

"Oh, Sherlock!" she exclaimed, frowning.

"Molly, how could I go and enjoy it after… everything. If you had been willing to go…"

"So it's _my_ fault!" But she almost laughed.

He smiled crookedly. "You'll get some good use out of that black dress, now."

She frowned again, with narrowed eyes. "I gave it to charity at the first opportunity."

"Oh." He hesitated, then blurted, "You did look lovely-"

"Sherlock!"

"-except for the earrings, they were a bit much."

She sighed, shaking her head, suppressing a chuckle.

He said, suddenly inspired, "I could take you shopping!"

"No!"

"No?"

"Well, maybe," she conceded. "I have a couple of dresses that would work, but I can't wear the same things to eleven performances - not with the kind of attention you get from the media. But give me a chance. I may surprise you."

And at that, he finally grinned and pulled her close again. "You've _always_ surprised me, Molly Hooper," he said. "In the best possible ways." And he kissed her.

~.~


End file.
